


as the sun

by simaetha



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Gore, Horror, M/M, Mildly Inconsistent Use of Quenya, Predatory Utilitarianism, Sauron's Villain Monologues, Torture, Trauma, Victim Blaming, abusive relationship tactics, child harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6749338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron gets <i>some</i> of what he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as the sun

**_i._ **

Eventually: you put aside the knife, and touch the bound hand; stroke your fingers through the sweat-damp hair; speak to him soothingly.

“Tyelperinquar – “

He tries to flinch aside.

“No, Tyelpe, _listen to me_.” You lean in close to him, your hand still on his; press your mouth briefly to his jaw, tasting metal and salt, hearing his breathing shudder. “It’s alright – don’t worry. I can see this isn’t going to work.”

You draw back, a little, and smile at him; lick at your mouth, to remove the wetness of his blood. He blinks at you, disoriented – dehydration, exhaustion, lack of sleep. You can see his confusion, the quick mind trying to guess at your intentions, look for meaning behind your words.

You mean precisely what you say, this time.

It isn’t productive. There are some prisoners who _won’t_ yield, under torture – you must break them or kill them; either way, there’s very little left of them afterwards. Tyelperinquar –

You thought him more intelligent than that. But his stubbornness has always confounded you; his refusal to _give in_ , to submit to greater force or hopeless odds, to admit himself defeated in the face of a superior power.

“I didn’t _want_ to do this,” you say, meditative. “Oh, Tyelpe, this could all have been so much easier – you didn’t have to make me do any of this; it could all have been better; cleaner.

“Well, that’s the difference between us: I can do what needs to be done. I understand that – sometimes one has to do unpleasant things, to achieve a desired outcome; any work of real value requires labour and effort.”

“You think _that’s_ the difference?” Tyelperinquar says, bitterly.

You can still taste him in your mouth, and you card your fingers through the weight of his hair, tugging gently as he tries to lean away.

“What you think,” you say, watching him intently, “is that what I’m doing now isn’t _justified_. As if – as if only _I_ were to blame, when – when this is _your_ doing, too. You don’t get any exculpation for standing aside, you know. I thought you agreed with me on that. I thought someone from _your_ family ought to understand it.”

You watch him looking aside, biting his lip, and then –

“I am _not_ letting you blame _me_ for your actions,” he snaps, his gaze swinging back round to meet yours. “I don’t – do you think I haven’t said all this to myself? If there was a moment when I – could have stepped in, said something, made you listen? This is about _you_ , Annatar, you made all your own decisions. I’m not going to take responsibility for choices _you_ made.”

You smile again.

“Let’s test that argument,” you say.

***

You lean against the chair you have Tyelperinquar tied to as a pair of orcs drag the prisoner in. You’ve been using human guards around him, as much as you can – the Eldar tend to a sort of unthinking reflexive distaste about orckind, and you haven’t yet had the chance to correct Tyelperinquar’s – but mortals often react unpredictably to this sort of work.

The prisoner is gagged, but snarls at the sight of you, and struggles against the guards – not very effectively. The captives you took in Eregion are for the most part those without any particular martial skills – craftspeople, artists, gardeners; those born in the Second Age of the world, raised outside Melkor’s long shadow.

Sadly, very few of them are those you would have considered _useful_. The remnants of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain made themselves – deliberately, you think – aggravatingly difficult to take alive.

Tyelperinquar is very tense.

“I think you said,” you say, “that what was happening wasn’t _your_ responsibility? It is, you know. I don’t enjoy this. I would have preferred everything here to be very different. _You_ insisted on making this difficult for me, at every step of the way – _you_ went behind my back to make the Three Rings, _you_ insisted on turning this into a war, this is the situation _you_ created.”

“Do you have some sort of point,” Tyelperinquar snaps, “or do you just enjoy listening to the sound of your own voice?”

“Tell me what you did with the Rings,” you suggest.

“Fed them to a spider. Go look for them inside one.”

“Amusing,” you say, flatly; and signal to the orcs.

***

Afternoon light slants through the windows, slowly lengthening as the hours wear on, casting patterns of shadows and gold across the stonework. The floor is bloodied in slowly-expanding pools, a runnel of it trickling towards you, still warm; the air smells like offal, raw meat, bodily fluids.

Tyelperinquar is shaking, face wet with tears. You stroke your fingers down from the back of his neck, towards his shoulder, feeling the muscle contracting under his skin.

“Annatar, if you – how – I will _never_ tell you _anything_ – “

He begged throughout, voice breaking as a counterpoint to the prisoner’s muffled screams. And through the next one you had brought in – _please, no, don’t_ –

It was tedious and futile, as you pointed out to him. Tyelperinquar knew exactly what he had to do to make it stop whenever he liked.

“That’s your decision,” you say, leaning closer, resting your weight against the arm of the chair and propping your elbow against the back. You glance up at the orcs, and make a signal with your hand, to their grunts of obedience.

“ _Why are you_ – “ He stops, takes a shuddering breath, lets it out. “ _Annatar_. If this is – _you’re_ the one who decided you have to do this, you _don’t_ have to, you could stop _any time_ – “

You tilt your head, considering.

“I _do_ have to, Tyelperinquar,” you say, tangling your fingers in his hair again. It’s a mess; you want to comb it out for him. “It’s as I said: I’m willing to acknowledge what needs to be done. Do you think I _wanted_ anyone to die?

“If you hadn’t _betrayed me_ – “ You pause, feeling your grip tighten, and make yourself relax. “If you hadn’t gone behind my back to make the Three Rings, this would never have been a problem in the first place. But you did, and here we are.”

“I – _no_ ,” he snarls. “I will _not_ let _you_ pretend this isn’t _all your doing_. You’re giving the orders, here, Annatar, if you order someone killed then _you are the person to blame_ – “

“Do you think people always get to behave as they would _like_?” you ask, in some degree of genuine curiosity. “Surely not. I _need_ you to tell me what you did with the Rings, Tyelperinquar. It’s important. I find this all rather – distasteful – as well, you know; but I don’t see any particular virtue in refusing to take action, either. I thought you agreed with me, in the past.”

“This is _not_ the same – I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you’d compare yourself to the Valar, but – “

“Tyelpe, I _am_ a Power,” you point out. “I have a _responsibility_ to Middle-earth. _I’m_ not going to abandon it.”

You glance up as the orcs bring in the next prisoner. The elf-child is only about a third their height, and much less in terms of mass; it cries and claws at them, twisting and trying to kick, its feet scrabbling in the air.

Tyelperinquar – stares, for a moment, and then makes a small, choked sound of horror. You have found Elves even more prone to sentimentality about their juveniles than mortals, as a rule.

“ _No_ – “

“It _is_ wasteful,” you acknowledge. “I suppose this one could have grown up to be interesting – unlikely, of course, but there’s always a chance. Well, it’s your decision, as I said.”

“ _Annatar –_ I – _you_ – “

One of the orcs raises the child’s hand to its mouth, and bites; the child shrieks, and begins sobbing in earnest, a high piercing wail. Blood drips from the orc’s mouth as it spits out fingerbones; you frown a little at the mess.

“ _Annatar this is between you and me_ , do what you like to me but _please_ – “ Tyelperinquar pants for breath between the words, pupils dilated. You can see him shaking.

“ _Tyelperinquar_ ,” you say, annoyed. “This _isn’t_ about you. Not really.”

The orc bites into the child’s hand again, taking away more of the flesh with a crunching sound as the longer bones towards the wrist shatter. The child shrieks again, and passes out.

“ _Annatar_ – “

“The Rings, Tyelperinquar.”

He tells you.

 

 

**_ii._ **

The battle is unnecessary. You find it disappointing that, offered the chance to surrender, Gil-galad would clearly rather fight on until the inevitable defeat.

It is, nonetheless, a problem you enjoy solving rather more than you would prefer to admit. Warfare is tactics and supply lines – the thousand and one things that must be held in mind and brought into coordination, coming together into an ever-shifting web of resistance and force.

You spent a reasonable part of the First Age learning its patterns – the art of setting army against army, interestingly different from the clash of Powers familiar to you from the beginning of the world. Like any well-honed skill, there is a certain pleasure in applying it now; your abilities, certainly, exceed those of this so-called King of the Noldor, lord of fugitives and refugees.

“What do you think?” you ask the captain of your personal guard, absently, gazing out across the field of battle.

She shrugs, a fluid motion despite the heavy armour, eyes narrowed in the pre-dawn light; they show a greenish flash at the back of the retina as she glances over.

“Poor coordination. The Elf-king – “ the term Kiyazi uses is not quite _Elf_ , but convincing orcs to refer to their once-kin with taxonomic accuracy is something of a challenge “ – does well enough, but they’re not all soldiers on that side. Nor all _his_ soldiers, the ones that are.”

You hum agreement. “The Númenóreans don’t _quite_ think they’re under his command, do they? You’d think the Eldar might have learned their lesson about the fickleness of mortals.”

Kiyazi grins, showing teeth. “Lord – “

“On my signal,” you say, and –

The pattern spins outward in your mind, your own troops – the battle-hunger of the orcs, easily channelled and disciplined to your own ends; the diffuse fear and anger and loyalty of the Men sworn to your service, that under your will blazes and intensifies to a fury of devotion – and the sudden disoriented terror of your enemies –

You raise your hand, smiling, the Ring shining golden and brilliant upon it, a focus and a binding and the kindled sun about which the minds around you are drawn inexorably into orbit, the battle reshaping itself to the form of your choosing.

“ _Now_ ,” you say, and laugh; and urge your horse forward, making directly for Gil-galad, as his allies’ lines begin to waver and break.

***

You’re starting to find the situation rather repetitive.

“Nothing,” you snap, kicking an emptied storage-chest to one side. Gil-galad’s command post was relatively austere, for Noldorin royalty, but not entirely without elegance; now, after your troops’ search, the place is a wreck of broken locks and shattered furnishings, silken banners torn down and trodden over, even the tables pulled apart into firewood. “Am I the _only_ person whose reaction to possession of a priceless treasure is _not_ to immediately give it away to someone else?”

Kiyazi shrugs, bored, then brightens. “Swallowed them, maybe? Let me cut him open, and I’ll make sure.”

You consider this.

“No,” you say, a little regretfully. “I’d have noticed if the Rings were that close. Keep the search going, but – he must have given them to Círdan. Or _another_ of his allies. If Elrond Half-elven’s had them all this time, I will be _very displeased_.”

It’s entirely typical of Tyelperinquar to manage to create a situation this aggravating. You think it’s _unlikely_ Gil-galad would have given the Rings to his herald – Elrond had nothing like the forces to withstand a direct confrontation with your own armies – but you didn’t _expect_ Tyelperinquar to resist the One Ring in the first place.

A tap on the splintered entry-frame. The messenger enters and drops to one knee, bowing his head; you wave him up impatiently.

“Well?”

“Lord,” he says, hesitating; and then, in a rush, “Commander Tawaŝi says that – can you come at once, please, they’ve accepted the offer to parley.”

***

Mithlond is walled and fortified, the pale-grey local sandstone drawn upwards into ramparts and turrets, gulls soaring and diving against the rain-washed blue of sea and sky.

After a certain amount of preliminary negotiation, you agreed to speak with Círdan from opposite sides of the port-town’s walls, Círdan standing at the parapet by the gatehouse while you remain below, each of your escorts removed to a wary distance. You’re hardly _encouraged_ by his insistence on opening talks with a display of mistrust, but – well.

“Lord Shipwright,” you call up, smiling. “Fair winds to you, and clear skies – ”

Círdan is old, as the Elves reckon their years; he frowns down at you, bearded as a Man, solemn and unyielding.

“Spare me your courtesies, Gorthaur,” he says, flatly; and you feel a sharp internal flicker of irritation. “Tell me what you came for, Lord of Wolves.”

“This is a poor welcome,” you say, putting gentle regret into your voice. “I have no desire for your enmity – you fought against me, of course; but I understand, you came when your king asked it of you. Set it aside; let us speak as friends.”

“Foul one,” Círdan snaps, “there is no friendship between us, and never will be.” He glares down at you, dark-eyed and obstinate; as if this were still the starlight of Beleriand, and a war long-past. “Tell me what you came for, and be done with it.”

At a little distance, your guards shift, discomfited. They’re not _quite_ in easy hearing range, and the coastal lilt of Círdan’s Sindarin bears no great resemblance to the dialects common in the East; but the insult to you is unmistakeable.

You smile again, this time showing your teeth.

“You assume,” you say, “that there _is_ something I want from you.”

“There is always something creatures like you _want_.”

“Lord Shipwright,” you say, “consider, rather, what you want from _me_. You know what it is that you hold. As a token of friendship, I am offering you this chance to return it, out of my own generosity and goodwill.”

A tilt of your head.

“Or,” you say, raising an eyebrow as you watch him, “I could take your city, and reclaim what was stolen from me by force. I might have thought _your_ people would understand what comes of laying claim to treasures they have no right to.”

“I might have said the same of you and your master,” Círdan says, white with anger. “If that is your offer, abomination, I will have none of it. You and your slave-armies may _try_ to take my city, but you will pay in blood for every inch of it.”

“A shame,” you say, and turn and make a signal to your guards.

The bundle they produce from the tent covering is ungainly and hard to carry; they drag it over, leaving a furrowed trail in the grass. You watch Círdan draw breath to speak, silence himself, his hands white-knuckled as they grip the stone of the parapet.

You’ve had Gil-galad bound against any struggle, but it is, in truth, hardly necessary; the broken jaw you dealt him in the battle would be enough to prevent speech, and his legs drag uselessly as your guards pull him into view, the knee-caps deliberately shattered. Blood still mats his hair, and the side of his face is scraped and bruised.

“If you give me the Rings,” you say, “I will account that a gesture of conciliation, and be satisfied. Here, if you like, is an incentive for you – this is of little use to _me_ , although I suspect you may consider it to have value. Return my property to me, and I will return _this_ to you.”

 _You_ are not foolish enough to refuse to know your enemies. An Age ago, it was the man before you who had the raising of his future king; and his loyalty has been unfaltering ever since.

 _He thinks of him as practically a son_ , you remember Tyelperinquar saying, a little wistfully, on a summer evening some centuries ago.

Círdan clenches his jaw, fingers digging so hard into the stonework you almost expect to see it crumble beneath his hands.

“You have until tomorrow,” you say, pleasantly, and turn away.

***

Outside, the evening air is cool; your troops crowd around their campfires. Distantly, you hear the echoes of talk and laughter.

Your own campaign-tent is well-appointed, and you make your way past the entry-curtain, nodding to the guards on the door. Silks and tapestries hang from the walls, lamps glowing overhead; while incense burns in a small brazier, filling the space with sweet warm scent.

Tyelperinquar is sprawled in a heap of cushions on the floor, one arm over his face; he raises his head and gives you a resentful look as you come in, then, quite deliberately, settles himself again, apparently deciding to ignore your presence. You suspect he suffers from lack of occupation.

He only had to spend a few days gagged, until he stopped trying to use Song whenever outside your presence. You’re confident he’ll see reason _eventually_.

Time is, if it comes to it, not something either of you lack.

“I realise this is not a novel observation,” you say, crossing over to him, “but your kin really do have a striking insistence on creating as many difficulties for everyone as possible – not least for themselves.”

“Mm.”

“Even _I’m_ starting to wonder at this point if the Three Rings have caused more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, stop _sulking_ ,” you say, irritated, dropping to your knees beside him. “I didn’t even kill Gil-galad – not that I understand why it’s so much worse to be sent West unbodied than to travel there any other way. I wouldn’t choose to live in Valinor myself, I admit, but it’s not such a terrible fate as all _that_.”

Tyelperinquar shifts, the chain at his ankle clinking as the links move against each other. Forged of shining mithril, it runs to a fastening in the central tent-post, seasoned hardwood anchored deeply in the ground; it is, in his present circumstances, inescapable – although he still has the bruises from attempts to prove otherwise.

“Of the many things wrong with that remark,” he says, flatly, “allow me to point out that you did not, precisely, _choose_ not to return to Valinor.”

“I did, actually,” you say, pleasantly. “I thought I’d mentioned that part. Eonwë invited me to go back there; I decided against it.”

“Your efforts to _evade punishment_ are _not_ the same thing.”

“I _chose_ to devote myself to the healing and enrichment of Middle-earth, just as you did. And as you know,” you say, “our circumstances are not so different, Tyelperinquar Curufinwion. _I_ simply have the resolve to take the actions necessary to – “

“I would rather bite open my own veins,” Tyelperinquar says, “than listen to another of your monologues on how _necessary_ your actions are. You’re not just abhorrent, you’re becoming tedious.”

“I wouldn’t have to repeat myself,” you snap, “if you showed the slightest sign of _listening_.” You reach out to take his wrist and pull his arm away from his face, keeping your hand still as he tries to yank it back towards himself, flinching.

“ _Stop_ that – “

“No,” you say. “I am _tired_ of this sullen behaviour from you; enough. You’re not achieving anything here, Tyelperinquar. Get over it."

“What am I supposed to _get over_ ,” Tyelperinquar snarls, sitting up and starting to fight your grip in earnest, “the people you’ve murdered, or the part where you _tortured me_ , or – “

“If you could stop these _dramatics_ , to begin with,” you snap. “Your _friends_ are likely enough to already be returned to life in the West, and _you’re_ perfectly fine. You’ve already healed. Stop going _on_ about it; I didn’t find it a pleasant experience, either.”

“Not _pleasant_ – “

You reach out to catch his other wrist, as he tries to lever your fingers away with his free hand; he makes a noise of anger and tries to struggle back from you, ineffectually trying to fight, his breath coming fast and shallow.

“ _Yes_ ,” you say, holding him. “It was _unpleasant_ , Tyelperinquar. I care for you. I don’t enjoy hurting you. I could wish you showed similar consideration towards me.”

“Stop it, _stop_ _doing that_ – “

“No,” you snap. You shift your weight, shove him back so you can pin his wrists with one hand; reach out and take his jaw with the other, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Enough of this _ingratitude_. I forgave you for your behaviour towards _me_ , Tyelperinquar, and you have responded with nothing but this – this _childish resentment_ – when I offered you _everything_ – “

You press your fingers into his skin, not _quite_ hard enough to bruise, suddenly furious with his refusal to even _listen_ –

“No – _Annatar_ – “

His voice breaks. He is, you realise, almost shaking against you, breath coming in quick panicked gasps; still trying to struggle against your grasp, pulse racing frantically beneath your touch.

You push away, abruptly, and rise to your feet, stepping back.

“ _Fine_ ,” you say. “I’ll _show_ you. And then you – you’ll see that this is – that what I am doing is the best possible course of action, in the circumstances, that I have been _generous_ – “

Tyelperinquar is still flinching away from you, huddling back to as much distance as the chain allows him; and you turn on your heel and walk out.

***

The next day dawns fresh and bright, cloudless skies and the early-morning chill of the sea air.

At Mithlond’s gates, you stand, this time, with your commanders beside you, Tawaŝi at your right hand, face unreadable beneath the heavy armour she favours, waiting stoically with a soldier’s patience; Kiyazi, as the captain of your personal guard, on your left, grinning in anticipation.

“Your decision, Shipwright!” you call out. You are already half-assessing your commands for battle, your troops arranged around the city; considering where to move first, the walls cracked, the fortifications torn down.

What you will do to Gil-galad, first, in the space just out of bowshot, so that all Mithlond can see it –

You will, you realise, enjoy breaking Círdan, who is an old enemy. When you have the opportunity to show him how his own choices have led to his destruction – when you can take his throat in your hand and leave him crushed and bleeding at your feet – then at least _he_ will be made to realise his foolishness in ever opposing you. You will be happy to explain his errors in _detail_ , one cut at a time.

The gates – open.

Círdan steps out.

His face is almost grey, eyes hollowed; he looks to have aged overnight, lines of pain apparent around his eyes and mouth that you saw little sign of on the previous day. Behind him, the gates are hastily slammed shut; you hear the sound of bars dropping into place.

You begin to smile, in sudden pleasure.

“Your answer, then?” you ask; and watch Círdan grit his teeth.

“I will – “

He pauses, closing his eyes for a moment, his mouth twisting.

“I accept your offer,” he says, forcing the words out as if they tore at his throat to speak; as if shaping his tongue around broken glass.

Your smile widens. Círdan cannot meet your gaze.

“A wise decision,” you say, smoothly, watching him flinch at your words. “Allow me to express my gratitude. Tawaŝi – ?”

She turns, calling out an order to her troops, and a group of them come forward, half-carrying the defeated Elven-king between them. Círdan glances at him in something like agony; Gil-galad, trying to speak past his injuries, is silenced by one of the soldiers.

“And for your part, Lord Círdan?”

He looks at you unspeaking, and – takes a palm-sized casket of steel from within his robes, casting it down upon the grass mid-way between you. At your nod, Kiyazi moves forward and retrieves it, handing it to you; it weighs more heavily than an object of its size should, some trick of alloy and spellwork.

The casket is locked, with no key provided. You can feel its contents nonetheless, power beating in your hand like a living heart, an unseen light that pours out across the landscape.

“I accept your exchange,” you say.

And lever it open, metal yielding itself up to you at the touch of your mind and your Ring.

In a corner of your awareness, you are conscious of Círdan reaching Gil-galad, gathering him into his arms as his foster-son makes a shaky, choking sound of pain, tears wet upon his face; turning to make his way back to Mithlond’s gates, his features grey and set. Tawaŝi makes some gesture to her troops. This is no longer relevant; you ignore it.

They really are _lovely_ things, you think. Vilya's sapphire, the deep pure blue of cloudless skies, set in fine elegant gold, like the sun just rising from the horizon; Narya, a bright clear flame in your hand, red as fire and blood.

You take a moment to admire them, and slide them on.

***

Sky, sea, earth, stars –

Your awareness spirals outward, from the minds around you to touch the world, the rock deep beneath your feet –

a comfortable ancient knowledge, layer upon layer of stone down and down into that slow, churning, inexorable sea of fire –

and the heavens above, wind and cloud and storm, the atmosphere thinning as it touches the searing cold of the void, bathed endlessly in radiation and light –

The mortals around you and at your side are a bright diffuse flicker, their spirits barely half-tethered to the world, at once malleable and fragile; the Elves a deeper blaze, constant as the stars. The world is living and responsive and so _easy_ to take and hold and manipulate, placing itself beneath your hand as if eager to serve.

You reach out, and –

Here. Yes.

The Númenórean fleet is scarcely a few days’ voyage from harbour in Mithlond; you were barely fast enough, your strategy only just sufficient to outdistance them. But there is no _almost_ in warfare. Their sails bell in the wind, prows cutting the waves; but they are already defeated.

You focus, strength coming down with driving force.

The waves rise. The sky turns black above them, clouds boiling up, faster than any natural tempest; the sailors cry out in dismay, scrambling in futile haste to take in canvas that is already becoming shredded and torn in the wind, the ships tossed here and there, salt water rushing across the decks and taking flailing bodies with it down into the deep.

Again.

Blue fire touches masts and spars with actinic light. You take the storm and split the air apart, a white flash jumping downwards from the clouds, an instant’s bright silence as it strikes a ship’s mast and turns it to splinters and flame, the shattering crash of sound following a moment later as sailors bleed and burn on the charred deck, moaning in fear.

Again –

The admiral stands on his flagship’s deck, clutching a railing with one hand and calling out in desperate prayer, to the Lords of the Sea, to any Power willing to attend, _please, save us_ , and you feel a brief moment of amusement before turning your attention to –

the depths of the ocean, the waves sliding from your grasp, sea salt the taste of blood _how dare you_ the shark’s tooth the cnidarian’s venom _you have no right_ the vast world-spanning currents dragging at you down and down and you recoil and strike back, lacerating, but the waters and the waves are _not yours,_ you cannot hold them, the burn of salt in your mouth –

You draw back into yourself, dizzied and hurting.

The sea is clear and still as glass.

Your troops are kneeling, some prostrating themselves, gazing at you in fear and awe and adoration, and you look back at them, tasting seawater and the iron tang of your own blood; as you realise that your victory has, somehow, failed to go exactly as you had planned.

 

 

**_iii._ **

“If you hadn’t given the Ring of Water to Galadriel – “

“Yes, _that’s_ the problem,” Tyelperinquar says, laughing a little wildly. “I’m sorry my _concerted efforts to prevent you winning the war_ apparently haven’t _helped_ you, it _was_ inconsiderate of me – “

“None of us would be in this position if you’d proceeded with a little forethought,” you snap. “I’m glad _you_ find it amusing.”

“I will certainly take greater care for your convenience the next time you decide to invade my city. _What_ position, anyway, the fact that you’re _still losing_ – “

“It’s a setback, not a _loss_ – ”

“I hope Tar-Minastir’s fleet wipes out every last one of your _soldiers_ ,” Tyelperinquar says, brightly. “I hope Númenor chases you all the way back to whatever lair of rock and ashes you dug out for yourself in the East – no. I hope he _catches_ you. I hope you lose _everything_ – “

You tilt your head, watching him; then come across and settle down opposite him, legs crossed, mimicking his posture.

“Oh, no, Tyelperinquar,” you say, smiling. “No. Did you think Minastir might want to _help_ anyone? If you were hoping for _rescue_ then I am afraid you will be very much disappointed.”

“Not in the least. I want to see _you_ defeated.”

“You understand,” you say, “even if I had moved more slowly – and thank you, by the way; you _were_ helpful, eventually – Númenor would never have reached Middle-earth in time to meet me before I took Eregion.

“Minastir delayed only a little too long; a few weeks or months swifter, and he might have been able to present himself as Gil-galad’s saviour – if no-one else’s. What do _you_ think would have happened, Tyelperinquar, if I had allowed myself to be driven back at the Lhûn?”

“If nothing else, I might have been spared your self-congratulation,” Tyelperinquar says, narrowing his eyes, a silver gleam in the lamplight. “Do you _have_ a point?”

He meets your gaze, straight-backed and direct, and you smile again, leaning a little closer.

“If you think you would rather be ruled by Men than me, Tyelpe,” you say, “you are _very much mistaken_. Your people accounted it a horror when your family swept down on the Havens of Sirion; among humans, I could name a dozen such massacres off-hand, most for no better reason than some petty tribal quarrel.

“They rape and murder each other _routinely_. They think a century is _a long time_ – “

“I’m interested,” Tyelperinquar says, “do you actually _know_ how many people you’ve killed, or after enough of them does it just sort of blur together?”

“I expect I could count if I had reason,” you say. “Failure of memory is not an impediment the Powers suffer from. Allow me a question in turn, Tyelperinquar – how many deaths do you think _your_ actions led to in Eregion? And what do you think you _achieved_ by it, exactly?”

He – hesitates, and you allow yourself a moment’s satisfaction, reaching out to stroke a hand through the hair around his face and catching it in your fingers as he tries to draw back, watching his flinch as he tries to pull free.

“I know what I’m doing,” you say, “and it _will_ be worth it, eventually – “

Tyelperinquar hits you.

You blink, disconcerted, putting your hand up to your mouth, feeling wetness – it takes only the slightest effort to begin to heal the damage, physical pain so unaccustomed a sensation you find it a little difficult to process –

“I hope you don’t think you’re actually capable of injuring me that way,” you observe. “Are you done?”

Tyelperinquar looks at you for a moment, eyes glittering.

“What do I have to _do_ – “

“Try and find out,” you suggest, and he shoves you back.

Your fingers are still tangled in his hair, and you yank him down with you, making him yelp at the pull. When he catches your hand and tries to pry your Rings away, digging his nails beneath them, you twist away and cuff him across the face, hard enough to sting; he grabs at your wrist and tries again, and you hiss in annoyance, then prop yourself on an elbow and lean upwards to bite at his mouth, wanting his _attention_.

“Tyelpe – “

He bites back, harder, and you kiss him, licking at the inside of his mouth, until he shoves you down again, knocking your head back against the floor-carpet.

“You never _listen_ ,” he says, raggedly, “you _always think you’re right_ , and if anyone tries to tell you differently you _attack them_ – “

“I listen to any _reasonable argument_ ,” you snap. “Have you tried doing anything _other_ than complaining? _Stop it, don’t do this_ – will you listen to _yourself_ , Tyelperinquar? What am I _supposed_ to do?”

“All you have to do is _stop killing people_ – “

“Oh, not this _again_ ,” you say, and lever yourself up, rolling Tyelperinquar over and back to pin him, kicking the chain out of the way. “How do you _want_ me to win this war? By _asking nicely_? Try saying something _sensible_ for once – “

“Get _off_ me,” Tyelperinquar snarls, struggling and clawing at your grip; you watch him bare his teeth at you, and –

You push away from him, sitting up, wiping at your face.

A pause. Both of you are breathing hard.

“Also,” you say, not looking directly at him, “stop _panicking_ at me. What do you _think_ I’m going to do?”

“I wasn’t – “

He breaks off. You take down your hair, running a hand through it to work out the tangles, and then begin putting it up again, sliding the long ornamental pins carefully into place.

Tyelperinquar, beside you, sits with his elbows on his knees, resting his head on his arms.

“Alright,” he says, eventually, his voice hoarse. “I – _fine_. Tell me what you’re _trying_ to do and I’ll tell you how I think you should make it work. I’m not conceding anything, by the way, I’m just trying to _stop you murdering people_ , since apparently you’re incapable of coming up with any actual _solutions_ on your own.”

You smile, slightly, still not quite looking at him.

“The utility of a solution,” you say, “is not measured by your personal approval. But – yes.” You glance over at him, your arm brushing against his. “Will you try to actually be _reasonable_ , this time, if I explain?”

“No,” Tyelperinquar snaps, raising his head, “especially since you seem to think _reasonable_ means _agreeing with you_. Do it anyway.”

“You don’t have to be so difficult about _everything_ ,” you say, watching him, resisting the impulse to touch the bruised flush you left at his mouth, “but fine. I’ll go over it all again. Do make _some_ effort to keep up with what I’m saying, this time – “

***

You spread a hand over the map laid out on the table, meeting Tawaŝi’s gaze. She looks faintly self-conscious, brows drawing together and mouth twisted with uncertainty, but nonetheless sits straight at your attention, waiting for a response.

“Yes,” you acknowledge. “I could simply destroy Númenor’s forces as soon as they land. It’s only that it wouldn’t be very _precise_.”

Tawaŝi hesitates, amusingly torn between her apparent faith in your capabilities and a natural reluctance to contradict you.

“Lord – “

“I could render the air unbreathable,” you suggest, “or call on the earth to give way beneath their feet and bury them, or – well. Men die easily enough; that part’s not difficult. It did occur to me you might prefer air you could breathe _yourselves_ , though.”

Tawaŝi, along with several of your other commanders, pales a little in realisation. You _had_ given it some consideration, but –

You glance down at the map again, admiring the glitter of your Rings; the burnished gold of your own still striking beside the jewels Tyelperinquar made.

“I don’t _think_ I can simply command them all to die,” you add, reflecting on it. “Let’s not rely on that as a strategy.”

It would, after all, be counterproductive to destroy the lands and peoples you meant to rule. A few deaths now would be very little price for the future you meant to build, but – calling to the fire beneath the mountains and scouring the whole coastline around Lindon to barren rock seemed excessive, when all you faced was a single battle among mortals.

 _What are you, Morgoth_ , Tyelperinquar had spat at you –

“Lord,” another suggests, squaring his shoulders, “with all respect, of course – the soldiers in _my_ units are more than prepared to fight. Surely the Men of the West can hardly hope to prevail against the strength of your chosen – ”

He is, from his expression, sincere, and there is a murmur of approval from around the table; you control your impatience at his response.

“The _strength of my chosen_ ,” you say, “is _your_ strength. I would advise you to be cautious when measuring it against a foe you have never met.”

You glance around the table. Tawaŝi is frowning in contemplation; a scout-captain recently recruited from the Enedwaith – who had watched the last of her people’s forests burn, and smiled to see the Númenórean camps burn with them – is glaring at her own hands, mouth a bitter twist.

“So,” you say, pleasantly. “Let us consider _alternatives_.”

You don’t _like_ it. But –

Among the many advantages you have over mortals, you find yourself thinking, is that you can, in the last resort, afford to take your time.

***

Kiyazi trails after you as you make your way through the camp; you glance at her and find her unaccustomedly pensive.

“You were hoping for more battle,” you observe.

“There’s always another fight _eventually_ ,” she says with a shrug, the sunset striking glints of bronzed light from her armour. Even at her most casual, Kiyazi moves in a long-limbed predatory slink, head occasionally swivelling to catch the motions around her; watching her gives you the pleasant satisfaction you feel in any well-made creation.

It was Melkor who first created the orcs, taking the firstborn Elves and twisting them to his own purposes; it was you who made them _useful_ , managing their development for strength and endurance and specialised talents. The orcs are _yours_.

“What would _your_ preference be for our next action, then?” you ask, in mild curiosity; and then roll your eyes as she grins, vicious and bright. “You could _attempt_ to consider the longer-term, occasionally.”

“Lord, that’s why I follow you,” she says, cheerfully; and you half-smile, despite yourself.

“I could wish others were as sensible,” you say, glancing out across the tents and earthworks. “Of course, _you_ were designed that way; others don’t have the same advantage.”

Mithlond, at least, is broken for the present, but – establishing a more permanent fort in the area might be a useful precaution. You wouldn’t particularly object if Círdan himself had the intelligence to sail West as soon as you moved your attention elsewhere, but you _do_ mean to rule over the Elves, as well, not merely to cast them out.

Kiyazi gives you a sidelong look, her expression thoughtful.

“Like that pet you’re keeping?” she asks, and –

The word she uses is not exactly _pet_. You attempt, as a rule, to discourage such coinages.

“It’s charming,” you say, pleasantly, “that you seem to think your unsolicited observations have some value to me. It betrays a considerable overestimation of your own intellectual abilities.  I suggest you seek to remedy that.”

“Lord,” she says, lips tightening; and is silent, thereafter.

***

You take a sip of wine from your glass, savouring the complex flavours – esters; acids; phenols – then glance across at Tyelperinquar.

As far as you can tell, he’s barely been eating. You’re not overly concerned – it would take a very long time for hunger to seriously injure one of the Noldor born in Valinor, and from his demeanour, you’ve assessed it as lack of appetite rather than some self-defeating attempt at resistance – but you note the point for future attention, in any case.

When you raise your hand, the glint of light shifting from your Rings seems to catch his eye; you meet his gaze and smile.

“They _are_ very fine work, of course,” you say, still smiling. “I admit, I _was_ annoyed at the way you sought to use what I gave you, but – well; that’s all in the past. I’m not sure I could have done better with these myself, Tyelpe.”

Even now, you can _feel_ the potential waiting in the Rings Tyelperinquar made, the pleasing resonance between them and the Ruling Ring; your power flowing from each to each and back to you once more, an endless cascade that becomes more and more stable as time passes. You have only to _allow_ your desires to shape the world around you, with barely an effort of will required.

You have considered, in the past, the nature of power – what it is that separates you from the Elves; what it was that set Melkor, once, above all others even of the Valar.

Melkor was a failure, of course. And you yourself are no Vala. But –

If there is a separation, it is, you think, much thinner a line than you ever realised.

“All things considered,” Tyelperinquar says, recalling your attention as he pushes his plate away, “I could manage without the compliment. I thought that – that – “

He cuts himself off, muscle working in his jaw, looking over at the tent-wall rather than at you; you watch his expression as he gazes unseeing at the embroidered hangings.

“You didn’t know about my – past, then,” you say, thoughtfully. “Is it that – _did_ you imagine my reaction, when you were forging them?”

His head jerks up to glare at you; and you smile again, in sudden bright pleasure.

“Oh, _Tyelpe_ ,” you say, fondly, your smile widening. “I will compliment your works all you like. I _am_ pleased with them – when this is over, we can talk about it _properly_ ; I do want to know more about how you made them. I might even tell you something about forging _this_ one.” His gaze drops to the One as you speak; you angle your hand obligingly for him to better see it.

“I didn’t make them for _you_ – “

“Who _did_ you make them for?” you ask, with a tilt of your head. “No-one else can use the Rings the way _I_ can, Tyelperinquar. Or did you want – “ You shoot him an amused glance. “Were you hoping to use them to bring your own abilities closer to mine? I can understand the motive, although it would take rather more than _these_ to be successful.”

He glares a moment longer, then – sighs, and scrubs a hand over his eyes, looking tired.

“I thought – “ he starts, and then hesitates again, looking down at the polished surface of the table. “I think there _was_ a time, Annatar, when you _did_ want to help with the healing of the world; I still don’t think it was all a lie, when you said you wanted to – to help raise Middle-earth up; to make it better and more beautiful.”

His mouth twists.

“I suppose,” he adds, “I should know better than to expect you to remember any of that now. I wish I knew when it was that you changed your mind.”

“ _Tyelpe_ ,” you say, surprised; and watch him lift his gaze to look at you again, his own expression startled in turn.

The furniture is only travelling-stuff, but well-made for its kind; you rise, pushing your chair back, and step around the table, sliding the dinnerware out of the way to perch on its surface at an angle from Tyelperinquar, projecting your best attempt at reassurance as he looks at you apprehensively.

“Of course I haven’t changed my mind,” you say, giving in to the urge to reach out and stroke his hair back from his face; a brief, careful gesture. “I _do_ want to help Middle-earth. What else would I be planning to use the Rings for? Everything we ever planned together – you’ll see, Tyelperinquar, I promise. It’s only that I’m _capable_ of more, now, that’s all.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Tyelperinquar says, unhappily; and you take his hand, at that, raising it in yours to place a kiss against the back, your touch very gentle.

“The Valar abandoned Middle-earth after the War,” you say, your voice soothing, “but _I_ won’t. Once I’ve taken the last of the Rings back from Galadriel – “

Tyelperinquar shoves himself away from you, kicking his chair back and rising to his feet, steadying himself with a hand against it as the chain tangles; you pause, giving him an inquisitive look.

“If there’s one thing I _appreciate_ about you, Annatar,” he says, his voice tight, “it’s that I can always rely on you to remind me who you really are _eventually_. Who were you planning to torture to death in front of _her_ – “

“Tyelpe, I’m not planning to torture _anyone_ ,” you say, irritated. “Assuming Galadriel hands Nenya over, in any case. Which she really might as well, at this point, although I suppose I wouldn’t put it past _her_ to withhold it purely out of spite – “

“You _killed her brother_ – “

“You know perfectly well that your cousin disliked me long before she had the first idea I’d ever met Finrod,” you point out. “Can we move on? This is going to be a very dull conversation if you insist on bringing up every accusation made against me in the First Age; I’m honestly not sure how you expect me to respond.”

“ _Remorse_ would clearly be too much to ask,” Tyelperinquar says, his tone close to contempt. You tighten your grasp on the edge of the table until you hear the wood creak.

“I’m sure performative emotion would be so _helpful_ ,” you say, your voice cold. “If I wanted to put on a show of self-pity I’m quite certain I could manage it – I could take _your_ recent behaviour as an excellent example. Making the Rings has meant far more to the world than if I’d spent the past few centuries indulging in whatever _feelings_ you consider appropriate – “

“Yes, how could anyone possible expect you to _reflect on your own actions_ , much less _learn_ anything – “

“Congratulations on your ability to make yourself miserable, Tyelperinquar,” you snap. “I look forward to however long you plan to spend displaying _remorse_ for _your_ actions in Eregion. Meanwhile, _I_ will be attempting to do something _useful_ – “

“The first thing you did with Vilya and Narya was try to wipe out the Númenórean fleet,” Tyelperinquar says, flatly. “ _You_ sacked Ost-in-Edhil, when you couldn’t get what you wanted you responded by starting a war – _I made the Three Rings to heal this world_ , Annatar, and all you can think to do with them is _destroy things_ – “

“ _You_ made that necessary,” you say, through gritted teeth. “I’m not – I _am_ planning – “

“Of course you’re _planning_ ,” Tyelperinquar says, and – laughs, half a sob. “I hope _some_ of Middle-earth survives your _plans_ , Annatar, we’ve already lost enough of it – “

You step forward, all in one motion, and take his face in your hands, feeling him try to stumble back, his hands flying up to catch at your wrists.

“ _Yes_ ,” you say, low and cold. “I _do_ have plans, Tyelperinquar. Melkor was a failure; the Valar have turned their faces away. But _I_ will do better. Be grateful, Tyelpe, that _I_ have not abandoned my responsibilities – and you _will_ , I think, learn to be grateful for it.

“I have faith,” you add, “that _you_ are capable of learning. Eventually.”

***

Away from the camp, the estuary’s waters are a shifting darkness, the lights at Mithlond’s walls a dim glow to the west. Above you, the Moon is a thin crescent that shows from time to time past the ragged clouds, Tilion’s inconstant glow outlining sandbanks and reeds.

You stroll past the sentries with a nod, and make your way along the waterline, feeling the shift of mud and sediment beneath your feet. The tide is coming in, and the river-mouth is stirred by cross-currents and eddies; as you pass, a curlew breaks into sudden flight, a flutter of dull wings and a high rising call.

The wind changes, carrying the clean scent of ocean waters. At length, the presence around you sharpens, focuses; you feel its attention drawn towards you.

You stand, looking out towards the distant horizon, clenching your hand into a fist to feel the pressure of the Rings you wear against your palm.

“Oh, and _now_ you take an interest,” you say, with some asperity.

A waiting silence.

“Let me guess,” you say. “Naturally the Valar can leave Middle-earth to Melkor; can devastate half a continent; and can then leave what remains of its inhabitants to suffer and starve in the wreckage, while they sit idle on Taniquetil; but if _I_ try to take any sort of _constructive action_ – “

Memory. Waters poisoned; the clear springs of the Ivrin muddied and fouled, left to seethe with pollutants and decay. An old, lingering grief.

“Yes, well, what about the _last_ thousand years or so? It’s all very well to say Melkor didn’t give you any choice about Beleriand,” you add, “but in that case you can hardly condemn me for making a few necessary sacrifices _now_.”

The terror of a mortal sailor, choking on salt water as he fought the waves, his struggles slowly weakening as he slipped under again and again, until the last of his strength ran out.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I seem to remember you and Ossë drowning enough sailors for the crime of attempting the journey to Valinor,” you say, coldly. “It must have been rather confusing for the Elves, to be first ordered to travel West and then punished for doing so.”

Grief, again. Choices considered, debated, discussed; a brief, flickering memory of the Máhanaxar. The ruins of Angband and Thangorodrim, with their slave-shackles and prison-cells, now cold beneath the ocean depths.

The sea washing away corrosion and old blood.

Judgment. Disdain.

“I am _going_ ,” you say, narrowing your eyes, “to finish the work of healing and creation that should have been done in Middle-earth long before. This world will become stronger and fairer in _my_ hands. You and yours abandoned it. I will do _better_.”

The waves surge against the sands as you turn your back and leave.

***

Clouds; seagulls; the stones of the beach, pebble and rock smoothed by the ocean and slick with lichen and moss. You establish yourself well above the high-tide line, and seat yourself casually on a wooden chest set out beside your standard, drinking the fragrant tea an aide brings to you as you wait.

You have enough intelligence on Númenor to interpret their naval semaphore; still, you’ve left most of your commanders back at your camp, with strict instructions in case of treachery. There is, of course, little their weapons could do to harm _you_ personally, although you spent a pleasant half-hour plotting catapult-ranges and planning out your potential response.

It’s clear, though, that their admiral has had the sense to see your invitation as the opportunity it is. You smile a little as you watch the longboat coming in, oars cutting the waves until the rowers leap out into shallow water to drag the boat up onto the shore.

“Lord Ciryatur,” you call out, smiling more widely, as the admiral approaches.

He hesitates before he addresses you.

“King of the East,” he says, and –

You keep the rush of satisfaction from showing on your face; knowing, as he speaks, that you _have_ him, now.

“Let me begin by expressing my gratitude for your willingness to meet with me,” you say, still smiling. “I know what reports my enemies must have given you regarding me; I can only seek your indulgence in allowing me to give my own account.”

“Númenor has no fear of warfare, but we have never sought it out,” the admiral answers, his tone neutral. “You must realise we cannot ignore the injury you have done to our allies, of course.”

The flicker of his mind is a tangle of caution and desire and fear that he has almost hidden even from himself; it takes barely a touch of the power your Ring gives you to soothe it.

“Of course,” you echo. You hand the tea-bowl back to your aide, in a gesture of studied relaxation, and stand, stepping to one side.

An assistant opens the chest, throwing the lid back.

You have no intention of offering Númenor much of _real_ value; but then, you would hardly expect the admiral to recognise it if you did. The chest contains a glittering show of gemstones and precious metals, of the sort much prized by the Númenóreans, but worked – with a few exceptions – only for beauty, not for power.

“I am, naturally, prepared to discuss other reparations,” you say, pleasantly. “But allow me to offer you this gift, as a small token of my intentions here.”

The admiral blinks, attempting to appear unmoved. You allow him the courtesy of pretending not to notice otherwise.

“Shall we sit down?” you ask, nodding towards the silken tent established a little way from you. “I think there are matters we could usefully discuss.”

He glances again at the treasure-chest. Standing out as lovely even among the rest of your offerings is a set of rings, elegantly worked; although, you think, even a mortal is likely to understand that their virtue is more than merely beauty once they wear them. It should be simple enough to guide them to the right hands, after that.

You expect you can do more for _Númenor_ than the Valar have, as well. In fact, you are entirely certain of it.

“Come,” you say, gesturing with the hand that bears your own Rings. “I can be very generous to my allies. I am sure,” you add, your voice sweet, “that in time, you will have cause to find that out.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Take a look at corinthian-13's excelllent illustrations of Sauron being extremely reasonable towards Tyelpe [here](http://corinthian-13.tumblr.com/post/157368996153/a-small-doujin-from-one-of-my-favorite-scene-of), [here](http://corinthian-13.tumblr.com/post/156050118703/i-was-trying-new-design-for-tyelpe-and-annatar-and) and [here](http://corinthian-13.tumblr.com/post/154817265133/another-one-sorry-simaethae-but-its-all-your)! <3


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